Semi-Daily Scribbles

Karla wanted a way out. Out from under her desk, her lease, her self-imposed exile from the people who knew her true nature. No one in the office believed for a minute she was a native of their fine, fly-over state, home to miles and miles of corncobs and hogs as far as the eye could see. That was all right. Karla didn't even mind the rumors, really. They were silly, harmless things like "Did you know Karla used to be a nun?" and "I heard she sends most of her paycheck to her relatives in the Old Country." There was, of course, some truth to the gossip, but Karla's story was not shaped in a way that could be easily swallowed in casual conversation.

"Why yes," Karla spoke aloud to the large drip coffee maker in the break room. "I do take care of my family in Romania. As you know," Karla paused to look for a clean mug in the cupboard above the sink, "the dead are always hungry, and they expect to be kept in the lifestyle to which they've been accustomed." Karla sipped the weak, stale coffee and hoped for the raise her boss had promised once she hauled in the coveted Bishop account.